There is a mountain in the stone.
There is a mountain in the sky.

There is a mountain in the river.
It shimmers and breaks,
reforms, is destroyed
and continues.

I’ve spent my time
looking for these mountains,
for the mountains behind them,
as if there were
a mountain on which
all mountains, teetering
and massive, rested.

As if the real
were upheld by the real,
the meat by different meat,
the stone by different stone.

A lack of voices tells me
(no easy image –
they’ve ceased to speak)
to stop climbing.
To put away charts,
paint, piano, language,
all the weapons of scaling
that which has no measure.

And I’m not where I’m going,
and have no place to go.
There is more than just the trip.

Time to leap.  Time to fly.
(And if there is no wind?, no sky?)